


The Executioner

by Lusciousinpain



Series: Hot Spies In Love [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, CIA, Confessions, Did I mention sex?, Double Crossing, Espionage, F/F, FBI, Fingering, Gay Sex, Insecurities, Low Self Esteem, M/M, Master/Slave undertones, Mentions of Rape, Role Playing, Secrets, Sex, Spies, Spit As Lube, Top Castiel, Top Dean, Trust Issues, Understanding, Violence, lots if sex, nipple olay, patience - Freeform, secret agents, self hate, sucking dick, surprise guest appearances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-02-28 11:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lusciousinpain/pseuds/Lusciousinpain
Summary: "Tell me everything.’





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corvus_chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvus_chick/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me everything.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the latest and greatest installment of my 'Hot Spies In Love' series. 
> 
> I'm dedicating this one to corvus_chick. A gem of a human being who sent me the loveliest and most uplifting comment about this series. Truly inspirational. And I'm forever grateful! Just love her!! Hope you like this one, bb!
> 
> There's a few surprises tucked away in this one, some more plottiness, some suspense, and lots of yummy porn!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It's 9am

 

"Tell me everything."

"Huh?" Gabriel huhs, acting dumb, and Dean charges at him. 

"Sonofabitch!" Dean shouts, reaching for the infuriating man, but Sam holds him back. "I'm sick and tired of you and your damn family playing with our damn lives-"

"Dean, calm down." 

"Calm down? Sam, they're screwing with us! Have been for years! They used me as bait! Used us to kill their family's enemies! They're probably the reason mom died-"

"Hey," Gabriel cries out, "that's not completely true."

"Not helping, Gabe." Sam gives Dean a long hard look, then gets in Gabriel's face, demands, "Talk to us, Gabe. We know you know more than you're telling us, okay, so stop holding out."

"But Sammy," Gabriel says, tone hushed, the words whispered between their lips, "...I can't."

"I'll beat it out of you, if I have to!" Dean warns, pushing past Sam to get to Gabriel.

"Dean, please-"

"Not now, Cas!" Dean wrestles with Sam, one arm around his neck, the other pointing in Castiel's face. "Just don't talk, okay, you'll only lie."

"Whoa," Gabriel calls out, tutting, "manners, Dean-o."

"Manners? I'll tear your head from your-"

"Tell them what they want to know." Castiel tells Gabriel, carding shaky fingers through his hair. "Tell them everything." 

"Ah...you sure?" Gabriel leans towards his brother, hisses, "Bobby'll be pissed."

Three sets of eyes stare daggers at him, and Gabriel deflates, falls back against his chair, and exhales, "Fine. But you two might want to take a seat," he points to a pair of kitchen chairs, rubs at his jaw, and winces, "this is gonna take a while."

...

A shout, "Bloody hell!" Then a chair flies through the air, it clips a cowering underling on the shin, and he crumbles in pain.

"Mind your temper, darling." 

"Temper?" Crowley screeches, reaching for a crystal vase, throwing it hard against the wall, and it shatters, showering them all in a million deadly shards. "You, you want me to...to mind my-"

"Yes." Rowena snips, cutting him off with a pointed look. "I honestly don't understand why you're so upset."

"Upset?" Crowley reaches for a lead paperweight, aims it at the door, and Rowena snorts, unimpressed and unafraid. 

"You should be thanking me." She complains, offended by her son's ingratitude.

The paperweight hits the floor at that, a dull thud, the sound of defeat. "You have no idea what you've done to us..." He tells her, eyes on the floor, "...the repercussions, the fall out...you don't know-"

"I most certainly do." Rowena fires back, not caring one iota about the consequences. She takes a sip of her tea, looks over at Meg, and shakes her head. _'What's a mother to do?'_ She silently communicates, but Meg wisely keeps quiet. It's not like she'd dare suggest what she'd like do (put a bullet in Crowley's head) to solve all of their problems. 

"Thanks to me," Rowena continues, setting down her cup, "our enemies now know with whom they are dealing." She's composed, though her brows knit vigorously while she speaks. "There'll be no more lurking in the shadows for us. No more hiding behind the Milton name-"

Crowley throws his head back and screams, his rage shaking the foundation, terrifying the injured worker, and Rowena yawns, takes another sip of her tea, while Meg sits back and smirks, brow arched, hands resting on her thigh, the one with a tiny recording device strapped to it.

"Why do I even bother?" Crowley mutters, dropping onto his chair, rubbing at his throbbing temples, then pulling out his phone; he scrolls, types, hits send, and hums to himself. 

"What are you doing?"

Crowley ignores his mother, types something else, and she harrumphs, argues, "Fergus, sweetheart, don't you see? Now we can act freely. With the Miltons scattered about, either in prison," she snickers, "or dead, the other syndicates know we're the ones in power. They'll have no choice but to join us-"

"Is that so?" Crowley challenges, picking up the land line and snarling, "I need a mess cleaned up in here!' He hangs up and looks back at his mother, face blank, unreadable, and Rowena bristles, hackles raised, because she knows it's going to get ugly.

"Fergus-"

"Shh...mother, please." 

"Fergus, we need to get ready for our guest. She'll be here any minute. Now's not the time for the maid to clean-"

"That wasn't the maid I called."

"Then what sort of cleaning-"

A sharp knock, and Crowley beams. "Well," he says, clapping his hands, "it wasn't about the bloody broken vase." He nods to the two men that walk in, points to Rowena, and tells them, "Gentlemen, please escort my mother to her suite."

"Fergus, you can't be serious!"

"Deadly serious, mother."

"But I don't understand. What have I done wrong?"

Crowley's jaw drops. "Wrong? Well let's see." He takes a second to rein in his temper, then starts counting off, "How about the very dangerous fact that your very dangerous prisoner escaped? Hm? Or the sad fact that your rabid nephew got himself captured, then killed? And all because you refused to collar him!"

"How dare you speak about Alistair that way." Rowena gasps, clutching at her chest. "Alistair was a good man, sensitive...in his own way, and loyal-"

"He was a maniac that needed to be put down!" Crowley rises from his seat, paces. "Which brings me to Castiel Milton." 

"What about him?"

"What about him? Well, how about the fact that he's the one that helped that federal agent you kidnapped, escape." 

"Castiel Milton? He's, he's the...mole?" Rowena turns to look at Meg, studies her for a beat, then it hits her, _'Meg knew'_. 

Of course she did. She's the one that sought them out. But not because she wanted to defect. But because she wanted to mislead them with false information. She's double crossed them too. 

_'That must be it.'_

Rowena can't prove it yet, but she will. 

"Yes," Crowley grits, pounding his desk, "surprise, surprise, a Milton has double crossed us." 

"You can't lay all of the blame on me." Rowena argues, "You're the one that kept him on-"

"At your insistence!" Crowley counters, pointing an accusatory finger at his mother. "While that blundering fool, agent Walker, whom you recruited without my permission, let Castiel get away! Now, we've not only lost our two best soldiers, but we've lost our own mole in the FBI!"

Rowena clutches her bag and stands. "Well," she exhales, stepping away from her chair, "I can see there's no reasoning with you right now. Let's go, Meg."

"And who said Meg could leave?"

Rowena gives her son a look, a _'you're dancing on my last nerve'_ look, but Crowley simply stares back; after decades of being on the receiving end, he's mastered the same look.

"You seem to have forgotten who's in charge of this little enterprise." He says, walking to the door and opening it.

Rowena huffs, but gives Meg a smile, painfully false, and Meg smiles in return, just as fake because she knows Rowena is on to her. 

"We'll talk later." Rowena tells her, and the glare she throws Meg's way, promises swift and cruel justice. "There are several glaring discrepancies I'd like you to clear up for me."

Meg nods, scathing quip on the tip of her tongue, but Crowley speaks up first. 

"No." He says to his mother, absolute and final. "From here on out, Meg will be too busy managing our latest project to bother having tea with you, mother."

"You can't put her in charge. She'll ruin everything. Don't you see she's betrayed us-"

But Crowley is sick and tired of his mother's meddling, and ignores her outburst. "Make sure she doesn't leave her side of the estate unless I say she can." 

"You're making a very foolish mistake." Rowena warns, and she's right, but not because of the reasons she thinks.

"Thank you for the warning, mother. But I'm sure that between me and Meg, our very special guest, will soon become, our very special partner."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his own predilection towards extreme violence, the 'shoot first and ask questions later' mentality the FBI strictly admonishes (as well as the unsavory rumors orbiting about his illicit after-hours activities) Sam still chose him to be his partner.

"It was Crowley? All along?"

Gabriel nods, eyes heavy, head throbbing, he's exhausted. 

"And we blamed...your family." Sam meets Gabriel's eyes and frowns. "All of these years. I mean, that's what we've been trying to prove, all along. That the Miltons ruined our entire world." 

"Because they did." Dean snorts, not entirely convinced the Miltons are innocent.

Sam whips around. "What? No-"

"Yes, Sam." Dean stands, starts pacing. "Maybe not directly, but by employing that douche, the Miltons might as well have pulled the trigger themselves!" 

"Dean," Sam looks over at Gabriel, regret etched deeply into the furrows of his youthful brow, "Crowley betrayed them too. Killed their father, framed Michael and Luke, stole their-"

"Sam!" Dean cuts his brother off with a sharp word, a menacing glare, but doesn't say anything else. He exhales sharply through his nose instead, and mutters, "I'm going to kill him." 

"Not if I get to him first." 

"No way." Dean shakes his head, sits back down. "You're not going anywhere near Crowl-"

"That's not your call!"

"Really, then who's call is it?"

"Mine." Sam sets his jaw, holds his ground, and as much as it pains him, sets Dean straight. "This is my case, Dean. You're only involved because Bobby said I could pick _anyone_ I wanted for my team."

Dean clenches his jaw and doesn't argue. What Sam said is true. Even though Dean lobbied aggressively to lead this assignment, Sam got it. But Dean isn't too bitter about it. If anything, he's grateful. Despite his own predilection towards extreme violence, the 'shoot first and ask questions later' mentality the FBI strictly admonishes (as well as the unsavory rumors orbiting about his illicit after-hours activities) Sam still chose him to be his partner.

But Dean knows it's only because Sam wanted to keep a close eye on him, and he gets it; he's done plenty of reckless shit in his pursuit of the Miltons, their soldiers, their rumored associates (i.e. Alistair), and he's not about to stop now.

Nevertheless, orders or no orders, Dean is not about to let Sam go anywhere near Crowley, at least not without him.

"And you think Bobby'll let you go after him yourself?".

"I don't care what Bobby says." Sam shouts, because he doesn't. Crowley is as good as dead, as far as he's concerned. "Even if Bobby kicks me off the case, or strips me of my badge, Crowley is mine."

Dean laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Then how about if I knock you on your ass-"

"I don't get why you're fighting me on this, Dean." Sam stands, slams a fist on the kitchen table. "If Gabe's intel is correct, then Crowley is the reason I never got to know my mother! Why are you suddenly protecting him-"

"Why?" Dean shouts back, voice wavering from years of pent up grief, doggedly staring down his brother, while Gabriel and Castiel silently seethe nearby. "You just pointed out why! Mom, dad, our youth, my career, our life, all of it Sam, shot to shit because of Crowley! And there's no way in hell I'm about to lose you too!" 

"Dean..." Sam takes his seat again, tries to meet his brothers eyes, but Dean won't look at him. 

"I'll do it." Castiel says, terse, determined, eyes passing from Sam to Dean. "I'll avenge our families." 

" _We'll_ avenge them." Gabriel corrects, patting Sam's hand, and Sam smiles, shakes his head. 

"Ah...thanks, but..." Sam looks over at Dean again, and this time meets his eyes. "...this is something _we_ need to do. Together."

"You're right, Sam."

"He's right?" Gabriel's shock at his brother's acquiescence is written all over his face, and he sputters, "What...they can't. Cassie, it's too dangerous."

But Castiel is serious, deadly so. "With Rowena and Crowley's lieutenants out of the way, Dean and Sam will encounter very little resistance in his capture."

"Okay, correct me if I'm wrong," Gabriel says, shifting in his seat to better stare down his brother, "but are you're suggesting _we_ clear the way for them?"

A nod from Castiel, but Gabriel is not convinced. "Cassie," he starts, tone tense; he can't stress enough how bad an idea this is, "we'll never get all of them. They're too many. And you know that place is sealed tight. Sam and Dean will get mowed down before they get anywhere near him." He rubs at his face and grimaces; it's still painfully sore. "And besides," he adds, smiling when Sam hands him an ice pack, "Crowley isn't the main target, here. We still need to smoke out whoever's pulling _his_ strings-" 

"Whoa..." Dean holds his hands up and Castiel looks his way. "What the hell does he mean by that?"

"That Crowley isn't the one in charge. Nor is he our main objection."

Dean and Sam do a double take. "Care to elaborate with the class, Cas?"

Castiel shares a look with his brother, grits his teeth, and explains. "While it's true Crowley is the one responsible for your parents deaths, he did so because John Winchester was a threat to him. The question is, why? What did John uncover that made Crowley desperate enough to sic Azazel after him?"

"Easy," Dean sneers, because it's obvious, "I bet there's tons of shit Crowley was hiding from your old man that my dad found out."

"I'm sure there was." Castiel replies, eyes narrow, emanating the sort of tightly coiled danger that shoots a greedy kind of need straight to the heart of Dean. "But Crowley was, and still is, a despicable coward. He would never openly disobey or betray my father, unless he had the support of someone he deemed more powerful."

"You're telling us there's someone out there more powerful than Chuck Milton?"

"Yes, Sam. It's the only plausible explanation for Crowley's open rebellion."

"Who the hell is it, then?"

Castiel meets Dean's eyes, and Dean sees his own anger and pain, mirrored in their blue depths. "That's what my bothers and I have been trying to find out for the past several years." 

"And I take it you two still don't have a clue." Dean points out, and Castiel drops his eyes, nods, because they don't. "That's just fucking great." Dean snarls, shooting a glare at the ceiling. 

"How can we help?" Sam asks, scooting his chair closer to Gabriel's. 

"No way, Sammy." This time it's Gabriel that denies Sam. But if Dean was unable to dissuade Sam, Gabriel doesn't stand a chance.

"Well too bad." Sam counters, and Gabriel pouts.

"But Sammy-"

"Gabriel is right." Castiel says, adding, "this mystery person, whomever he or she may be, is a far greater, and more dangerous foe, than even my father could handle. You can have Crowley." He tells Sam, and right them and there, Dean knows he can forgive Castiel anything. "But _this_ kill is ours."

"So what the hell are you planning?" Dean asks, dropping his hand under the table and resting it on Castiel's thigh. 

Castiel freezes, swallows, speaks slowly lest Dean remove his hand. "I plan on taking Gabriel on a killing spree." It's direct, it's the truth, and Dean squeezes the solid muscle. "Clear, ah-" Castiel gulps, eyes lit brightly. "Clear a path for you and Sam." He itches to touch back, but he doesn't dare, not yet. Instead, he adds with a bold-faced confidence that makes Dean's heart zing, "Crowley's death will only briefly upend the hierarchy. There's still Rowena and his deadly band of lieutenants to contend with before justice can truly be served." 

"Who said anything about justice?" Dean states, just as bold, just as determined, and knowing without looking at Sam, that his brother feels the exact same way. What they plan on serving Crowley (and every single crony they can get their hands on) is vengeance. And Dean plans on doling it out in generous helpings.

Castiel nods, because it's what he plans as well. "My apologies." He smiles, small but full of admiration. "I stand corrected. And if all goes as planned, the sudden upheaval will finally flush out our main target-"

"I don't think so." 

"What?"

"Nice try," Dean snorts, fingers kneading Castiel's thigh, the heat from his palm giving Castiel an erection, "but you're not going anywhere without us." 

"Dean..." Emotions at war, Castiel doesn't know what to say. He's confused, happy, shocked, pissed. Unfortunately, it's pride that wins the battle. "You can't hold me here." Castiel states, offended by Dean's lack of faith in him. He'd hoped that after everything they've been through, and after everything Dean has heard and learned about their shared past, that he'd be willing to extend Castiel a modicum of trust by now. "I'm an agent." He says, firm and fierce. "Just like you, but higher ranking, with higher clearance, and-"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean scoffs, impressed to his core but careful not to show it. "We're all really impressed we get to work with a hot-shot spy like you."

"Good one!" Gabriel cries out, laughing and clapping his hands. "Cassie's always pulling rank-"

"You're not going anywhere either. At least not without us. Neither of you is leaving our sight until all of this shit is settled." Dean looks at Sam, and Sam nods back. "Not without me or Sam."

"That's 'A-okay' with me." Gabriel grins. "But I need my stuff."

"You mean like your weapons?" Sam chimes in, intrigued; he'd love to take a closer look at Gabriel's arsenal.

"No," Gabriel huffs, cheeks blooming pink, "I mean like my electric-toothbrush."

Sam smiles, and immediately starts a mental countdown until he and his lover can be alone again. "That can be arranged." 

"Yeah," Dean says, removing his hand from Castiel's leg, standing, and grabbing his keys, "Cas and I will go grab your stuff. You two," he says, pointing at Sam's lap-top, "stay here and pull up every blueprint and floor plan you can find on Crowley's hide-out. I want to know every entrance, every exit, secret passage, every god damn nook and cranny that prick can hide, and memorize them all."

Dean heads to the door, Castiel keeping step at his side, and with smirk on his lips and a blazing wildfire in his eyes, promises, "He's not getting away from us. You can bet on it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something very...off about Amara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of possible rape.

"Sir, your appointment is here."

After Rowena was escorted from his office, Crowley and Meg relocated to the library. It's a larger room, though not as official, but they had no choice; Crowley made a mess of his office, and can't afford to make a bad impression. 

"Show her in." Crowley says, and the large, ornately carved, wooden doors, slowly open. "Amara!" He cries out, rushing to greet his guest. But she walks around his outstretched arms, and instead heads straight towards Meg.

"Who are you?" Amara asks, eyes narrowed, scanning Meg from head to toe, as if sizing her up.

"This is Meg Masters." Crowley jumps in, and Amara frowns. "She's the 'connection' I wrote to you about."

"Cat got your tongue?" Amara asks Meg, ignoring Crowley. 

"Of course she can-"

"Don't interrupt." Amara snaps, shooting Crowley a warning glare, and Crowley falls back, like an obedient dog. "Ms. Masters?" Amara asks, standing uncomfortably close.

"Heh." Meg smirks, playing it cool and collected despite the powerful urge to flee. "Call me Meg." She drawls, sweet as honey, but her blood races ice-cold (like glass shards coursing through her veins). There's something very...off about Amara, and even though the petite brunette is exceedingly beautiful, the twinkle in her eyes is decidedly unsettling.

"Okay...Meg." Amara slinks closer, every measured step a seduction, lips parted, eyes roaming blatantly, hungrily, over Meg's body - as if she could see right through her - and purrs, "I asked you a question." 

"That you did." Meg purrs right back, all cockiness and swagger, "And the answer is...I'm your dream come true." 

Amara's smile grows, but her eyes narrow further. "Is that so?"

Meg sucks on her bottom lip and throws Amara a devilish wink. "It is so." She smiles, looking at Amara through mascaraed lashes. "I'm the one that's going to help you corral all of those out of control assholes running around claiming their the new heads." 

She offers her hand, and Amara shakes it, holds it, pumps it, pumps it, unabalancung, and unnerving, but Meg swallows, and holds her ground. "But enough about me." Meg side-tracks, desperate to shift the focus away from herself. "I've heard an awful lot about you." 

"Have you?" Amara asks, smile gone, eyes like ice chips. "All good I hope." She laughs, as does Crowley, but Meg just smiles along, nerves at a high pitch from the stellar levels of crazy orbiting around her. 

"Heh, mostly-" Meg teases, taking her hand back, then saved from having to answer anything further, when the doors creep open. 

"Set that right here." Crowley instructs, and they all fall silent while a grim looking member from his wait staff, serves them tea. 

They all take a seat, Crowley in an armchair, Amara and Meg on the sofa, and after the server has left, Amara takes a cautious sip, then exclaims, "Now, where were we? Oh yes." She smiles, cold and humorless, setting her cup down and stating the last thing Meg ever expected to hear. "I find it curious that you've heard all about me," she begins, shooting Crowley another withering glare, "when all I know about you, Meg, is that you used to work for my brother." 

_'The fuck?'_

Meg's smile freezes on her face - like a rictus on a cadaver. "Chuck was your brother?" She asks, and Amara nods, sips, waits.

But for what?

"Does that shock you?" Amara asks, searching Meg's face, studying her reaction. 

"Yes." Meg replies, and it's the truth, but Meg twists it. "So you're a Milton." It's not a question, and Amara nods again.

"And you're the one that..."

"Orchestrated Crowley's rise and Charles' fall."

And there it is, a bona fide confession from Amara Milton. She's the connection, the missing piece, the mystery player that connects Crowley's nefarious gang with the notorious Milton family. It's the break they've all been searching for.

But why kill her own brother?

"So...you had Chuck killed?" Meg points to Crowley, adds, "Boss never mentioned-"

"I'm your boss." Amara corrects, and Meg bows, plays along. "And it's not Crowley's place to tell you anything I don't wish shared." 

Meg nods to that, but schools her features; she could scream she's so nervous, but she mustn't give herself away.

"But if you must know," Amara says, tone clipped, eyes locked on Meg, "as far as Charles and I were concerned, well, let's just say that my brother and I never saw eye-to-eye." Amara pauses, shifts towards Meg, and Meg pivots in Amara's direction. "He wanted to run the business in one direction, and I...in another.

"But as good fortune would have it," she plows on, ogling Meg's shapely legs when the younger woman crosses them (one thigh over the other to better record every word Amara speaks), "Crowley has been a tireless supporter of my business model, from very early on. Isn't that so, Fergus?"

"Ah...yes." Crowley smiles, nods, a simpering fool for Amara, a slave to her every whim.

"Unfortunately" Amara sighs, as if she were truly pained, "the Crowley name doesn't carry the 'weight' the Milton name does. So...here I am, staking my claim to the throne, so to speak, before some damn fool elects to put one of my nephews in control."

"So to speak."

"Yes, otherwise, all of my hard efforts would have been for nothing. It'd be like having Charles in charge all over again." Amara scoots a tad closer, rests her hand on Meg's knee. "Do you take issue with any of that?" 

"No." Meg replies, but it's a lie. She loved Chuck Milton (the man treated her like a daughter) and if it wasn't for her commitment to the CIA, she'd take her vengeance on his executioner, right here and now.

"On the contrary," Meg adds, taking a sip from her own cup, setting it down, then daintily dabbing at her lips, "Chuck was an idiot. I'm glad he's gone." She snorts, she snides, pins Amara with unimpressed derision, and asks, "The question now is, _boss,_ are you also an idi-"

"Meg!" Crowley rushes to shush Meg, mortified, horrified, terrified for her, for himself, for his plans, but Amara just throws her head back and laughs, thoroughly delighted with Meg's calculated candor.

This time Meg laughs along. And why not, she's obviously read Amara right.

Or has she?

A hard slap across the face knocks Meg back, snaps her head viciously to the side.

"I'm not usually this tolerant." Amara states, body crouched menacingly over Meg's. "But I find you amusing, and very attractive, so..." She leans in, fingers coiled cruelly around Meg's throat, thumb cutting off her oxygen, and Meg chokes, but she doesn't fight back. She spreads her legs instead - another calculated move to keep Amara from discovering the wire - and arches her back.

"Clever girl." Amara grins, palming at Meg's crotch, and Meg sighs, an erotic catch of breath to further deceive her her rapist.

But then the unthinkable happens.

Amara grabs Meg's thigh and wrenches it to the side, traces the wire's faint outline with the tip of a fingernail, and sneers, "Got you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel takes Dean's hand, and Dean startles, gulps, because here it comes, the big adios. The _'I don't think this shit between us is going to work.'_ , speech. "Dean," Castiel says, measured, cautious, "I don't think-"

The drive to the motel is tense, the silence, thick with the many secrets and lies (both recent and past) that lay between them. It's stifling, and it weighs heavily on them both. 

"It's the next one on the right." Castiel points, and Dean snorts.

"You gotta be kidding me."

It's the first words Dean has spoken since they left his house, and Castiel can't help the hope it inspires. But he doesn't understand what Dean is asking, and he says so. "I don't understand-"

"I thought you were staying in a motel."

"I never said we were staying in a motel."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine," he huffs, "you didn't. But for christ's sake, why an inn? Only old people, or sisters, or...couples, stay in inns. Not two guys."

"That makes no sense."

"And that name," Dean grimaces, eyebrows knitted, 'Cockels Love Inn'?" He shakes his head, looks over at Castiel like he's lost his marbles, but he's smiling. 

"It's a portmanteau of their surnames." Castiel explains, smiling back, though not sure why.

"Portmanteau?" Dean rolls his eyes again, huffs, "Is this place for hippies, or something?"

"No, not hippies. Well," Castiel's smile grows wider, dazzling Dean without even trying, "maybe Misha. But Misha and Jensen are a charming couple, completely devoted to one another-"

"Jensen and Misha? With names like that," Dean chuckles, pulling into the driveway, "which one's the chick?"

"Neither." Castiel replies, smile so big Dean can see his gums. "They're both men-"

"Men?" Dean's reaction startles Castiel, and wipes the smile from his face. "Are you nuts?"

"Why would I be nuts?" 

Dean parks, counts to ten, because he will not yell. "Cas," he exhales, tone tight, dripping with disappointment, "you're FBI. You should know better."

"I still don't see why staying here instead of a motel makes me nuts?" 

Dean rubs at his face, searches for the right words, but they're all lame, pathetic, inadequate - just like him. "Cas, you can't be, you know, in places that are all romantic and shit, with another man."

"Gabriel is my brother."

"Yeah, but they don't know that."

"And why exactly would they care?"

Dean throws his arms up, makes a d'uh face, "Come on man, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yes."

Dean feels his face grow hot, his stomach drop, and wishes he'd kept his stupid mouth shut. He's obviously fucked up. Again. But it's too late to turn back now. "Cas," he swallows, throat gone dry, "people are gonna think you like men." 

Dean swallows again, feels the temperature dip, but nevertheless breaks out in a cold sweat. "And if they see me go in with you," he plows on, trying to be tactful, but falling woefully short, "they'll think we're...together."

"We are together."

"But as a 'couple', Cas." Dean falls back, an exhausted lump in his seat, and with his eyes fixed on the car ceiling, breaks Castiel's heart, "It's one thing to go to a club and hook up in the dark with some nameless stranger. Everyone is anonymous and hiding shit there, either from their family or their friends or bosses. But out here, in the daylight, where everyone can see and judge you..."

"You-" there's a definite crack in Castiel's voice, and Dean hates himself for being the one that put it there. He clears his throat, grits, "You need not worry about your reputation, Dean. You can stay here. No one will see you or assume you and I are a couple." 

"Cas, look, I-"

"Because we're not, correct?" 

"Right." Dean nods, then winces; that was definitely the wrong answer. "I mean, yeah, we are together. But it's nobody's business." 

Castiel looks at his hands, lets out a soft breath; he's suddenly very tired. "It's almost check-out time." He says, climbing out of the car. "I won't be long."

"Wait!" Dean calls after him, scrambling to catch up. "I'll give you a hand."

...

The silence between them is suffocating. It's thick and oppressive, has a smell to it, like hopelessness, Dean thinks, bitter and cloying, and it's all his damn fault. At least that's how he sees it. 

Castiel must think he's the most insecure asshole on the face of the planet. And he'd be right, especially after all of the stupid shit that came out of his mouth. 

"Dean..." 

And if Castiel were to tell him to fuck off and lose his number, then Dean would do it. It's the least he could do. With his tail tucked tightly between his legs, Dean would 'fuck off,' broken and pathetic- 

"Dean?"

-A shell of a man, hollow and lonely. And it would be his fault. He's the one that's done this: built a towering wall between them, dug the gaping chasm that divides them, locked himself in a tower and thrown away the key- 

Castiel takes Dean's hand, and Dean startles, gulps, because here it comes, the big adios. The _'I don't think this shit between us is going to work.'_ , speech. "Dean," Castiel says, measured, cautious, "I don't think-" 

"Cas," Dean interrupts because he knows what Castiel is about to say, "look," he starts, swallowing back tears, gagging on the bitter sting of self-hate and foolish pride, "what I said outside, about you and me," he takes a breath then reels Castiel into his arms; he's done being a coward, "I just don't want you to jeopardize your career, or get a reputation like me. Okay."

"I don't-"

"My history, Cas. My goddamn preferences, alright? I know the reason I wasn't put in charge of this case," he laughs, pained and hollow, "or any case for that matter, is because I'm one kinky sonofabitch."

"Dean," Castiel squeezes Dean's hand, gently pries his fist open, "I'm kinky too." He smiles, rooting Dean with his gaze. "I'm dangerous. I'm violet. I enjoy killing. Giving pain." He rubs at Dean's life-line with the pad of his thumb, says softly, seductively, "Feeling pain. And I like women. But I prefer men. It's no secret." And it's true; Castiel has never denied the extreme pleasure he derives when striking down a target, let alone hidden his sexuality from anyone; it's never even occurred to him.

"Everyone that knows me," he stresses, "knows all of that about me. But what they don't know, and what I keep telling you, is that I'm _in love_ with you."

"Cas-"

"And if anyone in my family or the FBI takes issue with that, I'd send them straight to hell." Castiel links their fingers, tugs, "Dean, I'll be damned if I let my 'preferences', or career, or anyone, stand in the way of our relationship."

Wow.

But Dean just shakes his head, thinks Castiel is insane. "Cas, you don't get it. This is your life. You don't want to get stuck with the stigma-"

A strong hand on the back of Dean's neck, a hard kiss against his parted lips, and Castiel claims Dean's tongue, embraces his body, owns him utterly, and Dean melts, feels the barrier between them shift, crumble, and he sighs, because he can breathe again.

"Give me a chance, Dean." Another kiss, softer, deeper than the last. "Give _us_ a chance."

And Dean nods, takes another kiss, and another, and another. "I'm an idiot." He smiles, breathless, heart fluttering in his throat, while his hands undo Castiel's belt. 

"You are." Castiel agrees, baring his throat, the long column is irresistible to Dean and he bites down, buries his face where neck meets shoulder, and Castiel cries out, "But you're my idiot!" 

And Dean laughs, growls, "You bet I am." And bites down harder, the pleasure-pain is exquisite to Castiel, and he whimpers, palms at Dean's hardness, and Dean grunts, kisses Castiel's sweet mouth once more, then spins him around.

"Hands on the wall." Dean orders, yanking Castiel's pants down, pressing in from behind, and Castiel gasps, feels the prod from Dean's rigid length against his bare ass, and reaches around, puts his hands on Dean's hips, thighs, erection, and Dean whispers in his ear. "Spread your legs." 

"Yes." Castiel whispers back, heart thundering, a storm of emotions while he rushes to obey. He spreads himself wide for his master, and lays his palms flat against the wall. And with his back arched, and his ass at the perfect angle, Dean reaches around Castiel's body, and strokes him, milks bead after bead of precious pre-cum from the tip of his cock, and Castiel begs, impatient and bossy, "Do it." 

And Dean obeys. 

The snap of a button, the metallic snarl of a zipper, and Dean closes in, sucks on his finger, gets it sloppy wet, then inserts it into his lover. "Baby," he says softly, in awe, breath hot, body hotter, "you're still so loose." 

And Castiel smiles, because he should be loose, especially after hours and hours of fucking earlier at the house. "Then what are you waiting for?" He teases, pushing back, gasping from the sharp scrape of teeth on the back of his neck, and the blunt head of Dean's dick pressing against his anus.

And it's glorious, how Castiel quivers in his arms, how he clenches around Dean's finger. "You're perfect." Dean pants, pulling back to marvel at Castiel's hole (it's puffy and glossy, a decadent and delicious sight) and Dean knows this isn't going to take long. 

...

They fuck hard and they fuck fast. Fuck to chase away their fears and insecurities. Fuck away their pain. And amidst the grunts and groans - a mix of soft pleas and vehement vows, a chorus of their combined euphoria and shared joy - they reach a silent understanding and make an unspoken promise: to combat each and every obstacle thrown their way, as one.

...

"Yes, okay. I believe you." 

Except Dean doesn't. 

But they swore they'd be honest with each other going forward, so... 

"Scratch that." Dean pouts, but his eyes are steely, and a steadfast determination creases his brow. "I don't believe you." He states, and Castiel cups his face, a calm, soothing caress, and Dean leans into it's warmth, confesses, "I just don't understand why you'd want me."

And there it is. 

Castiel draws Dean in for a kiss, and still smiling, says, "It's okay not to believe me. I know I have to earn your trust." He kisses Dean again, just a soft tap. "And I will." He promises, vehemence making his eyes light up, a brilliant blue brimming with love for the damaged man in his arms. "And when you're ready, you will believe, and trust, that I want to be with you. _Really_ be with you." 

And he means it. Castiel will be patient with Dean. He will guard and protect their love (now that he's allowed himself to have it) with a fierce kind of jealousy, and never let anything, or anyone, come between them again. 

Not even Dean. 

...

"The room is paid until tomorrow?"

Dean climbs back into bed, cuddles shamelessly against Castiel's side. "Yup."

"Then you've met Jensen and Misha."

"..."

"Well?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And you didn't find anything noteworthy about either of them?"

"Only that they're gross."

Castiel laughs, nudges Dean, "How on earth are those two incredibly attractive men...gross?"

Dean gets on his elbow, traces lazy circles around Castiel's nipple, "I don't know." He shrugs, pinching the peaked nub. "I felt...uncomfortable being around them. Like I was intruding on something...intense."

A cocked brow. "Intense?"

"Yeah," Dean says, rolling the the nipple between thumb and forefinger, "that Misha guy wouldn't stop smiling at me. Like he knew something I didn't. And that Jensen guy," Dean snorts, leans over, gives the nipple a playful bite, "he couldn't keep his eyes off of Misha. It was creepy. Like if he looked away for one second, Misha might disappear. But I get it," Dean drags his hand towards Castiel's hip, grins, "Misha is _hot_. Almost as hot as you, baby." 

Castiel smiles, "I'm flattered." He says, pulling Dean in for a kiss, sucking on the plump bottom lip for a beat, then asking, "You truly think I'm that attractive-"

"Hotter." Dean claims, mouthing at Castiel's jaw.

Castiel blushes, but he doesn't argue. Instead he prods, "And Jensen? He didn't remind you of anyone?"

Dean thinks for a second, shakes his head, "Nope." And Castiel laughs; Jensen's hair may be longer and his beard fuller, but nevertheless, he and Dean could be twins.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing." Castiel grins, "Forgive me for interrupting."

Dean shakes his head, but doesn't pursue it. He steals another kiss instead, and resumes, "I'll tell what, though," He says, caressing Castiel's thigh in broad wide strokes, "the eye-fucking between those two got so bad, I almost told them to either dial it down a notch, or go get a room." 

Castiel grins, but he's curious, "And what stopped you?"

"I saw their wedding bands." Dean replies, thumb denting hard muscle. "And I also saw their wedding photos behind the counter. And, well, I guess..."

"You guess what?" 

Dean drops a soft kiss atop plush yielding lips, smiles, "I guess if I were them, I wouldn't want some asshole coming in and telling me how to act around the..." he gulps, "...around the man I love. Because if it was me, and I was married, well then," a soft huff, a bashful smile, "it's nobody's business how I act around my husband."

"If you were married?" Castiel asks, heart thudding so hard and so loud he's sure Dean can hear it. 

"Yeah." Dean smiles, blushing to his ears, naked and half-hard, but he's never felt more exposed. "Married." He repeats, dropping a kiss atop Castiel's cock, toes curling in delight. "Looking at each other like there's no one else in the room," he murmurs softly, licking at the tip, "or the world, even. And you can't believe how lucky you are, you know?" Dean looks at Castiel through long lashes, breath hot against Castiel's cock, says, "And yeah, I'd be terrified to look away, too. Terrified that it was all a dream." He exhales, starts stroking his lover, inhales, and admits, "Guess that's how you act when you're in-love." 

"Dean-" Castiel swallows, chest heaving, "I feel the same way." 

"Good." Dean rasps, tone fierce, gazing into an ocean of blue (his own eyes mirroring the love he finds in their bottomless depths) then taking Castiel into his mouth, sucking until he's fully hard, then pulling off with a pop. "And fuck everyone else-" 

Castiel surges at that. How could he not? It's exactly what he's been waiting to hear from Dean, since...forever. "Come here." Castiel says, wrapping Dean in his arms, and Dean falls back, returns his lover's embrace with the same desperate intensity, then gently urges him off.

"Need you." Dean whispers to him, exhaling the words into Castiel's mouth, forcing him to lay flat on his back, then climbing onto his lap.

"Yours..." Castiel whispers back, his mouth always on Dean, lining his cock against Dean's pucker, and groaning out loud when Dean sinks down.

"Holy...fuck..." Mouth open in a silent cry, Dean throws his head back, gyrates his hips, leans forward for a kiss, and Castiel's cock slips free. But the new angle spreads Dean's cheeks nicely, and Castiel grabs his ass, spreads him wider, squeezes the firm mounds, and thrusts, and thrusts, and thrusts.

And it's bliss, being in-love, finally attaining that elusive connection they've both been chasing, honoring the inherent commitment it implies. It's profound and all consuming, and they climax as one. 

Yet despite the fact that they're physically spent - limbs like jelly and bellies coated in cum - they soar, each deliriously drunk on endorphins, the transcendent high of mutual love, and it makes their heads spin and their hearts race. And they grow giddy from it - clumsy hands and slurred speech - but their kisses are sweet, deep and wet, all tongue and full of passion, insatiable. And they grind, and they rut, and their thighs slip slide against each other, and it feels so good, and the heat and friction is so perfect, that not long after their last orgasm, they're at it again. 

This time, when they make love, it's slow and sensual because they have all night. And with Castiel inside, and Dean on his back - bowed legs spread wide and Castiel's hips pulsing, cock easing in and out, a delicious drag, elbows bracketing his beloved's face - Castiel kisses Dean and Dean kisses him back, caresses Castiel's flank and locks his ankles, traps Castiel inside. 

And Dean is so happy and so full, every inch of him, every bit of space overflowing, that there's no room anywhere, anymore, for doubt. And he orgasms, again, dick throbbing, spilling between them, and then Castiel whispers those three precious words against his cheek, and then there's wet heat and Dean clenches, because he doesn't want any of if to leak, wants all of his lover's spend for himself.

And when his legs finally fall open, and Castiel slips free, they spoon, they cuddle, and it's dark, but their hearts are aflame, and their bodies are as one, and Dean whispers back those three precious words, brands them into Castiel's flesh, and Castiel hums, purrs, a thoroughly contented cat, because he believes Dean, and knows Dean believes it too. And they sleep, and its restful.

For now. 

...

It's 9am

"What's that look on your face?

"What look?" Jensen asks, brow scrunched, lips pursed.

"That one." Misha points out, smoothing his husbands brow with a gentle caress. "The one that says you're trying to figure something out."

Jensen closes the inn's ledger, places it back under the counter, "I don't know, it just felt weird being around those two."

"Weird how?"

Jensen thinks about it for a few seconds, shrugs, "The way they acted at breakfast, and then when they were checking out. Just being in the same room with them made me feel like I was intruding on something...intense. I mean," he turns to his husband, and finds him already looking his way, "did you see how that Dean guy kept staring at that Milton dude?"

"Castiel."

"What?"

"His name is Castiel. He checked in with his brother Gabriel-"

"Yeah, whatever happened to him?"

"Apparently they'll both be staying in Dean's house for the remainder of their visit."

Jensen snorts, "Castiel told you that?"

"No, Dean told me."

"Wait, how did you get Dean to talk. He's so tight-lipped. So...uptight."

Misha shrugs, "Guess he felt like he could trust me."

Jensen snorts again, "More like you're his type and he has a little crush on you."

"Jen, he's with Castiel-"

"Yeah, but you're the spitting image of _Castiel_ , so..."

"Heh," Misha smiles, nose crinkling adorably, "you really think so?"

Jensen nods, counters, "I _know_ so."

"Well then, my dearest love, I'm flattered, but I disagree-"

"Mish," Jensen pulls his husband into his arms, rests his hands on the small of his back, "everyone," he says, tone insistent, "and I mean _everyone_ that meets you ends up having a little crush on you."

Misha snorts, rolls his eyes, but Jensen laughs, because he knows he's right. And so does Misha.

"Fine." Misha laughs along, hands locked behind Jensen's neck, "But," he says, close and confidential, "I'm willing to bet you _anything_ that I could be standing in front of Dean Winchester, completely naked-"

"Completely naked?" Jensen gulps, voice gone all raspy.

And Misha smirks; he loves how husky Jensen's voice gets when he's aroused. "Completely naked." He teases, licking between Jensen's parted lips. "Except," he whispers, forehead resting against his husband's, "for those silly, white, fluffy, angel wings you like me to wear when we role play-"

"Mish..." 

"And," Misha barrels on, white teeth pulling delicately on the soft swell of Jensen's bottom lip, tongue darting inside for a taste, "even if I were standing there with my cock hard and my massive wings spread wide, Dean Winchester would only ever have eyes for...Castiel." 

But Jensen disagrees. "He'd have to be blind not to-"

"He is blind." Misha cuts in, hard cock grinding against Jensen's erection. "Blind with love." 

Jensen swivels his hips, nods, "Yeah." And chuckles, hands kneading Misha's ass, all the while steering him towards their office. "That poor dope is totally gone on Castiel."

"Yes he is." Misha agrees, closing the office door behind them, pulling off his shirt and peeling off his jeans. "Just like _you_ are on me."

"Damn right." Jensen says, licking his lips, pointing to a desk drawer while drinking in the sight of Misha's magnificent body. "Get the lube from my drawer." 

"I have a better idea." Misha grins, marching right up to Jensen and dropping to his knees. "How about we play, 'The Righteous Man and his Guardian Angel'?" He undoes Jensen's jeans, pulls out his dick - it's rigid and damp at the head - and Misha laps at it, licks the full long length, and both men moan. "But this time," he murmurs, plush lips mouthing the words against Jensen's balls, "instead of lube, how about you use that talented tongue of yours, to prep your Angel?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it: plot, twists, suspense, surprises, porn, porn, porn, and humor, I hope. 
> 
> It was fun writing (especially the Jensen and Misha bits), and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Let me know either way. Always love reading your comments!


End file.
